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The Hit We Almost Missed

IT'S official, I guess. Forty years after he recorded it, Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone" was just named the greatest rock 'n' roll song of all time by Rolling Stone magazine, a tribute it had previously been given by New Musical Express, Britain's leading pop-music weekly. Quite an honor, considering that the single was almost never released.

"Like a Rolling Stone" was recorded on June 15, 1965, in Studio A at 799 Seventh Avenue, then the New York headquarters of Columbia Records, where I worked as the coordinator of new releases, scheduling every step of a record's production. (On the top floor of the building, the modest studio had been used by Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Barbra Streisand.) When the edited tape was played a few days later for Mr. Dylan and his manager, the reaction was unanimous: it would be a hit and should be released immediately.

But before that could happen, the song had to be presented at Columbia's weekly singles meeting, and that's where the trouble began. Though just about everyone from the A&R (artists and repertoire) and promotion departments loved it, the sales and marketing people had a different opinion. And their opinion mattered, for sales and marketing was the engine behind the label's success.

Their objection to the song came on two levels. The unstated reason was that they just didn't like raucous rock 'n' roll. The sales and marketing people had made Columbia a winner by selling mainstream American music -- pop, jazz, country, gospel, the best of Broadway and Hollywood. But rock? No way. It was this thinking that had led the label to turn down Elvis Presley in 1955 and the first American album by the Beatles in 1963.

Of course, none of this was raised at the meeting about "Like a Rolling Stone." What did come up was the length of the song. In 1965, three minutes was the average time for singles played on national radio. "Like a Rolling Stone" clocked in at one second under six minutes. The solution? Cut the baby in half, the wise Solomon of Sales decreed.

When presented with this edict, Bob Dylan refused, fully prepared to engage in yet another fight with the giant, wholesome label. (In 1963, Mr. Dylan had failed to persuade Columbia to release "Talkin' John Birch Society Blues.") Except there was no one to fight with. The big guys were engaged in a more important drama.

Columbia Records, which had always remained autonomous from its parent, CBS, was moving into the corporation's new building on Sixth Avenue (soon to be known as Black Rock), where our vice president of sales and marketing was taking over the A&R department, and soon, it was rumored, the second-in-command position, under our much beloved president, Goddard Lieberson. That vice president and his staff had never expressed any great fondness or attached any future importance to Mr. Dylan -- who performed at one of their mammoth sales conventions but never "mingled." With all the distraction over the move to CBS headquarters and the intrigue of the executive power play, the matter of Mr. Dylan's epic rock song was quickly taken care of. A memo was sent out saying that the single was to be moved from an "immediate special" to an "unassigned release." Translated, it was in limbo, soon to be dropped, no doubt, into the dark graveyard of canceled releases.

After that, the tumult of the move to Black Rock filled our days. Decades of memorabilia from 799 had to be discarded because the welcoming notice from CBS clearly stated that clutter would not be allowed in the new building, a temple to spare modernism.

During my last trek through what remained of the A&R department, I was invited to sort through a stack of records and demos that were to be junked. Among them I discovered a gem: a studio-cut acetate of "Like a Rolling Stone." Carefully packing it into an empty LP jacket, I carried it home and that weekend played it more than once in my apartment. The effect was the same as it had been the first time I had experienced it. Exhilaration. Heart pounding. Body rolling -- followed by neighbors banging on the walls in protest. Then, on Sunday evening, it came to me. I knew exactly where the song could be fully appreciated.

At the time, the hottest new disco in Manhattan was a place called Arthur, on East 54th Street. Sybil Burton, whose husband had run off with Elizabeth Taylor a few years before, was the creator of the uniquely egalitarian club, which was on the site of the old El Morocco. Some of Arthur's owners were famous -- Mike Nichols, Stephen Sondheim, Leonard Bernstein -- and some weren't (me). When it opened in May, no one except the fabulous Sybil expected that Arthur would cause such a sensation, and that everyone would want to go there -- including Bob Dylan. Late in June, dressed in wine-stained, beer-splattered Army-Navy store couture, he and his rowdy male friends had tried to get in. They were turned away.

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His rejected single had better luck. Perhaps because I was a "club member," the D.J. was very polite when asked if he would kindly play the acetate during a free moment. Deliberately neglecting to mention the name of the singer, I did say that the song was rather long and that he should feel free to stop it if the dancers got bored or tired.

At around 11 p.m., after a break, he played the acetate. The effect was seismic. People jumped to their feet and took to the floor, dancing the entire six minutes. Those who were seated stopped talking and began to listen. "Who is it?" the D.J. yelled at one point, running toward me. "Bob Dylan!" I shouted back. The name spread through the room, which only encouraged the skeptics to insist that it be played again, straight through. Sometime past midnight, as the grooves on the temporary dub wore out, the needle began to skip.

But not before the song had been heard by two important guests. One was a D.J. at WABC, then the leading Top 40 radio station in Manhattan. The other was a music programmer at the equally powerful WMCA. The next morning both called Columbia Records and demanded to know where their copy of the new Bob Dylan record was. Staff meetings were hastily called. Goddard Lieberson, who had recently met with Mr. Dylan during his concert tour in England (only to be chastised backstage by Mr. Dylan's protective former girlfriend, Joan Baez, for allowing Columbia to "exploit and commercialize Bobby"), was brought into the dispute over the length of the song. Standards and rules were dandy, said "God," but they should never interfere with the evolution of an artist.

The release memo came shortly thereafter. On July 15, a month after it had been recorded, "Like a Rolling Stone" shipped to stores and D.J.'s. The latter were put on alert that this was a hot Columbia single, because it was pressed on red vinyl. On side one of the red promotional disc, the label read: "Like a Rolling Stone (Part 1). Timing 3:02." Side two said: "Part 2. Timing 3:02." The song had been cut down the middle. Sales and marketing had struck again.

But they didn't win. Some D.J.'s simply recorded both sides of the disc on tape and spliced the whole thing together and -- voila! -- came up with the complete song (with five seconds added).

The following week "Like a Rolling Stone," full version, entered the Billboard charts. By August it was in the Top Ten, rising to No. 2. Bob Dylan performed it live at the Newport Folk Festival (they booed the rock 'n' roll half of the show) and at a concert in Forest Hills, Queens (loud cheers).

The electronic folk-rock revolution spread quickly after that, and Bob Dylan began to dress accordingly -- he was no longer the prince of folk, but a rock 'n' roll star. Arriving at Arthur with the model Sara Lownds (whom he would marry that November), the stylishly mod and extremely polite Bob Dylan was promptly admitted.

"Like a Rolling Stone" remained on the charts for three months, carrying Columbia into what was then called "the New Rock." (The music, not the building.) Our omnipotent vice president of sales, however, did not lead that transition. Instead, a lawyer with no A&R training and no claim to having "ears" was given the job of administrative vice president under Goddard. His first task was to renew Bob Dylan's contract with Columbia. The artist's demands exceeded those of the top Columbia stars, Andy Williams and Barbra Streisand. His requests were met.

Op-Ed Contributor Shaun Considine is writing a book about New York and the creative revolutions of the mid-1960's.

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A version of this op-ed appears in print on December 3, 2004, on Page A00029 of the National edition with the headline: The Hit We Almost Missed. Today's Paper|Subscribe